If there is one thing I’m good at it’s making bad decisions. And when I was about 20 years old my special talent nearly cost me my life.

My bad choices led me to the worst jobs for the worst reasons, they had led me into dangerous situations populated with equally dangerous people. I was building a checkered past and not certain how I would break out of that pattern when fate casually walked through the door in the form of two well armed young men.

It took five minutes for them to rob us.

When it was over, I fled first to my apartment but, discovering they had used my stolen keys, I fled again, finding refuge in the basement of a friend’s apartment.  I hid there for over a month.

For that month, my only window to the outside world was their large-screen TV, and I consumed a steady diet of news letting my fear consume and embalm me.  The cocoon became a crypt, and when I emerged I had not evolved but grown the beginnings of a sarcophagus around my soul.  Now, I couldn’t be alone or in a crowd.  I moved constantly and changed jobs just as frequently, painting my new shell in the increasingly garish colors of my bad decisions.

Ultimately, I left my home for a new city, hoping to escape bad memories and the results of my bad choices, but my shell went with me.

In the city, I needed a roommate. My aunt, an expert on these things, guided me, locating a promising ad instantly. At first it seemed like a bad find; the ad had been placed by two men, but she assured me this was common in the city and, as the man on the phone sounded like he wasn’t  “an ax murderer “, she urged me to see the apartment.

Then next day I met with with the self-described goofy-looking goon.  This giant was definitely goofy, but he was also the most incurably friendly person I have ever met.  I took the apartment that day, and my shell began to crack.

It was weeks before I became aware of the fissure.  But as the goofy-looking goon and I quickly became friends, I noticed that, despite his own recent loss, he never seemed to retreat from the world.  He greeted everyone – corporate VPs or janitors – with the same good-natured cheerfulness, and as he was wrapping the world in a bear-hug, he took my hand and yanked me back into it.

To be sure, I still have the occasional flashback, but fear no longer owns me.  And, even though I sympathize with the urge to retreat in the face of the horrors the world inflicts on us all, burying myself alive didn’t make me safer, it just made me alone.

We were talking about barns at writing group yesterday.  Two of our members mentioned that the falling-down barns that are strewn around Washington County remind them of things cast aside.  There were inevitable comparisons between the aging barns and cast-off people and, with them, a bit of sadness.  But, for me, the talk of barns revived a feeling of optimism about rural life I’d enjoyed since leaving the farmer’s market earlier in the day.

We go because my kids love the farmer’s markets.  It’s not like going to the grocery story – I don’t have to drag them there, the kids love the sights and smells, they’ll eat the vegetables because they were fun to choose, and we actually spend about the same amount of money for a week’s worth of food as we would at the grocery store.

Yesterday, as the market began to close up, a young couple in their late 20s or early 30s caught my eye.  They were packing up to go home.  At first I noticed how young they seemed to be to be interested in farming.  I realized I was watching a little act of faith in the future of rural life.  But what I noticed next was their infant daughter (the bigger act of faith).

It was hot out,but she was completely content lying in her carrier under the canopy as she listened to the hum of her parents’ conversation.  They looked tired and ready to go home, but they didn’t look frazzled or worried.  They were working hard, but both farmers/parents smiled at each other and at their daughter from time to time.  And, as I thought about the hope this farming family represented, I thought about their daughter and her future here in the country.

Few farmers are financially wealthy, and she may want things that kids in other areas take for granted.  But when she gets to that age when she’s old enough to notice what she doesn’t have, I’m betting she’ll also start to notice the things she does have.  She’ll be surrounded by some of the most beautiful scenery in the northeast.  She’ll have the freedom not to ‘keep up with the Joneses’, to breathe clean air, to live close to the land as she gets to know nature.

I know this because even though technology is always competing for my sons’ hearts and minds, their souls are in the mountains.   I see it when they emerge from the forest, filthy and full of secrets.  I hear it when they excitedly point out the wildlife in the yard.  And watching this couple nurture hope under the market canopy, felt my faith in the future of rural life renewed.

I wasn’t planning to go to the park Friday night.  It had been a long week of refereeing, and I had planned to run away from home for an hour or so.  Dad was taking Thing1 and Thing2 to the park in Arlington to help celebrate the re-opening of the pond.  It was sort of a big deal – the Battenkill had completely overwhelmed  the park and pond during Hurricane Irene. I’m not a huge fan of crowds, however, and knew we’d be spending lots of time there later, so about 30 minutes after the kids skedaddled with Dad, I took off towards the bookstore in Manchester.

My trip took me past the park, and noticing that the parking lot was not overflowing, I decided to stop in for a few minutes to watch the kids cavort in the pond and to say hello to a few friends.  There were only about 30 or 40 people at the party.  And, while people streamed in and out, the party under the Lions’ pavilion never got much bigger.

The Lions’ club had prepared a special barbecue with all the trimmings, and  even the coleslaw was a little perkier than the usual pavilion picnic fare.  Bathed by the setting sun and the low tones of Beach Boys’ music interspersed with the chatter of neighbors reconnecting, the pavilion became a nostalgia-wrapped cocoon. It was hard to believe a flood had ever occurred, let alone ten months ago.  We reconnected, and the conversations inevitably revolved around Irene and who had escaped damage, whose house was still empty and likely to remain that way, which bridges were re-opened and which were gone.  Talk of the fear and losses from those days sometimes evoked somber, anxious expressions on the faces of friends,but triumph quickly replaced that anxiety when we related our stories of recovery.

Every Vermonter has a ten-month-old story of strength found and uncommon generosity witnessed or received.    We have all seen decimated homes and bridges damaged or destroyed by water and debris.  We have all heard stories of food being delivered on ATVs or even horses over mountain paths to trapped towns.  Arlington and the rest of the state have resumed their summer rituals, but when I pulled out of the parking lot and drove toward the hub-bub of Manchester, I felt as if we have all done much more than just survive.  And I was glad I had decided on an escape to my family.

Working from home is a blessing for a mom. Some days, however, when the kids are home from school and hitting the sibling rivalry part of the day, it can feel more like a curse. Yesterday was one of those days.

My shift was over, and when my husband got home, I announced I needed to fill up the car, and took off for the filling station. I drove along the Battenkill and, noticing the pink light hitting the mountains and river, decided to take a longer drive on the other, even quieter side of the river. I filled up and drove to the New York border before crossing the bridge to River Road, a dusty drive stretching back to the middle of Arlington. This time of year, the sun lingers in the notch between the mountains, and the golden light covers the fields and water with a pinkish cast.

My time was short so I decided to cross back at the covered bridge. This particular bridge sits just across the green from Norman Rockwell's former studio and is the most-photographed bridge in Vermont. The most common view, from the main road features the red bridge in the foreground, accented by a white church and a bed-and-breakfast in the background.

My favorite view, however, is the angle Rockwell would have seen every morning – a farm and field and the church take the foreground, and the quaint old bridge is almost hidden by a sprawling maple tree. I love it because, unlike the picture postcard view, coming at the bridge from the back lets me see the human side of Vermont. It lets me see the upscale vacation homes intermingled with hardscrabble family homesteads and more modern middle-class homes. I pass joggers and tourists and farmers working from dusk till dawn. Rockwell's view would have included the farms and some of the homesteads, and even though houses are more plentiful (even since I've been driving this route), I always cross the bridge back to my reality with the feeling that Rockwell actually got Arlington right.

Interest in his work is reviving recently, but there are always critics who pan his paintings as sanitized, schmaltzy views of an America that never existed. However, when I look at the images he painted here (featuring models plucked from the local population, some of whom still live here), I see the work of a great artist and interpreter – I see what we live everyday.

I see born Vermonters and transplants alike showing up for annual potlucks with their contributions and setting their differences aside, if only for a few hours. Even in 2012, I still see abandoned bikes at the edge of the Green River and their scrawny owners swimming in it in whatever they happened to be wearing when they got hot. I see farmers and laborers at the country store arguing politics and philosophy with professors and holding their own doing it. I see faces (native and newcomer) worn from living in perpetual recession – a situation I see in many rural areas in this country. And, just as Rockwell would have seen when he lived here in the 40s, I see people who survive the job losses and the elements and who may falter but who still manage to keep their humanity about them. It is a picture that, like Rockwell's paintings, can seem idealized when viewed from a distance, but is infinitely more complex. You just have to look closer.